Hellfire
by EvanescingSky
Summary: Midway through Middle Ages, England's growing hatred for France turns into all-consuming lust. He's torn between wanting to destroy her and just wanting her, but he fantasizes vividly about both. France seems either intentionally or unintentionally oblivious to the true nature of England's attitude toward her. In either case, she doesn't mind showing off with Spain around him.


Inspired by the Disney song of the same name. Takes place around the 1400s but no set dates.

* * *

As soon as she stepped into the room, all the light seemed to re-angle to shine from her; the very candle flames seemed to flicker towards her, as if striving to be closer to her unmatched beauty. Arthur didn't have to turn his head to know she was there; the loathing that closed up his throat like poison told him the story.

"Speak of the devil," he said, the words twisted with hatred on his tongue as he turned to look at her. His face was contorted in dislike, his eyes narrowed as though he could destroy her with his glare.

"When the priest summons me I shall appear," Marianne quipped, meeting England's gaze with a taunting look; it was as if she knew, she knew! She was tempting him, goading him to come to her, but she would have him only on his knees and by God he would not beg to a sinful tart like France!

"Have you finished with the treaty?" he asked, when he had taken in her for a moment; she wore one of her usual extravagant, elegant dresses that covered her elbows but left her bosom to swell over the frilled collar, like the forbidden fruit of Eve. Blood rushed; he felt his temperature soar and he barely managed to restrain himself from closing a hand around her throat, though whether he would choke her or throw her to the ground and have his way with her he could not say.

"Oui. I am finished with it. There will be no treaty between us, Angleterre," she said, as he had expected she would. She withdrew the parchment from the folds of her dress as though she might a dead rat and pointedly let it drift down to the soiled stone floor. A soft curl of dark hair hung down, brushing over her porcelain cheek. If he could have, he would have reached out and twisted it around his hand until she cried out with pain; made those plump, painted lips part in agony beneath his hand. "Your terms are completely unfair and you know it. I will not cede Calais to you any more than I would cut off my own hand."

"Then you forge the path to your own destruction," England spat, feeling his breast burn. His hands nearly trembled with the force it took to stop from leaping at her.

"Pride cometh before a fall, petit Angleterre," she replied in that flippant, breezy tone that made him want to slap her. He'd like to see that red handprint on her face, the shocked look in her eyes and made then she'd strike back. Oh, he'd like to go down fighting with her; nothing in the world made the blood roar in his ears like rolling around in the mud with France, fighting to her sword from her hand, his dagger to her throat, just as she was trying to do the same to him. For a moment he was so consumed with this scene in his mind, with the image of slinging her to the floor and beating her senseless, right there on the cold stone floor that he didn't reply. "But I'm sure you know that proverb well." Deciding she'd get no more from him, France turned to go.

"France will be mine, little girl," he said coldly, the ice forming thickly over the fire in his chest and gut.

"France will never bow to you," she said, her face hardening at last as she turned to look at him. For a moment, his gut convulsed in excitement and he thought he might finally have a fight at hand. "Come again, as I know you will, and I will meet you," she said, a challenge in the arrogant tilt of her head, the thrust of her breast.

"And I will break you," he assured her. "Go then, make your preparations; they will never be enough."

"So have thought the many before the king you have now." She turned again and opened the door. "Aurevoir, petit Angleterre."

Once the door was shut and her footsteps no longer sounded, he lashed out, knocking the books and papers from the table before him to the ground. He tried to think of what he would do to her, but nothing coherent came to mind; only a blind desire to rip her limb from limb and make her pay for—for—

_Little! Little! Petit Angleterre; you will see how small I am and God help you then!_

There was nothing quite like seeing France on her back. She thrashed like a fish out of water beneath his hand, writhing around in the mud, further spreading the stinking filth into her hair and skin, so ruining her vanity. The blue and white uniform she wore was equally destroyed; the ruff torn off, the fabric ripped across her side; this was her payment, for playing soldier like a man! England's hand closed tighter around her throat, just to watch her gasp for air, her chest arch upwards as her lungs screamed for air; he could practically feel the searing pain in his own chest, almost as real as he felt her thighs pressed against his, freed of her usual wide skirts, as such things were impossible to fight in, and instead clad in trousers and a long tunic.

A leer spread across his face and he raised his blade.

"Surrender, you pathetic excuse for a country," he said. Even now, fire blazed in her eyes and she jerked from side to side, trying to throw him off. She grunted and gasped, each noise echoing in Arthur's mind; unconsciously he drew his tongue over his lips. The rank stench of the battlefield surrounded them, overcome her usual overbearing floral scents that swirled around her like an aura, her predatory smile flickering around like a snake's tongue; she was nothing more than a brat of Eve herself. Tempting him to the Forbidden Tree, luring him into sin.

"Never!" She tried to sound brave, he could tell, but her voice was far more prone to whimpering than shouting. It gave him great satisfaction to see his certainties about her weakness confirmed. An empire to match his, ha! "You have not won yet!"

"Haven't I?" His lip curled as he looked at her and then he spat in her face. "Whore! Your empire's fall will be a victory for God." France shrieked, an almost inhuman sound and England put the edge of the blade to her smooth white throat. "Silence! Every word prolongs your suffering."

She curved up again, pressing against him in her desire to escape. England pushed her head further back into the dirt, smearing the muck into those disgustingly long, silky locks. She twisted her face to the side and he ground her cheek into the trampled field.

"You will pay for your sins at last," he said, moving to press the tip of the knife against her breast. A red bead swelled up around the blade. France's breathing grew heavier still and then he noticed her glassy eyes and paused. Was she supposed to be crying? Would France cry? Before he could decide if he wanted her to cry or not, the scene tore like a thin bit of parchment and he jerked upright, tangled in sweaty sheets and breathing as if he'd just jogged up a flight of stairs. Moonlight filtered through his window, his chest gleaming.

Growling with frustration, he punched his pillow and flopped back on the bed, determined to get back to sleep. But it was then he realized he wasn't going to get off that easily; the image of France's complete defeat, her abject suffering, had set a throbbing loose in his groin which had been growing while he imagined playing his knife tip around Marianne's breast. He swore and threw one of his pillows across the room.

_Fine_, he told himself. _I'll just think of something else_. But as soon as he touched himself, it was the image of France twisted and crying out beneath him, blood oozing from cuts on her chest and throat that burst forth in his mind and he didn't have time to be ashamed or rethink the wisdom before ecstasy and white fire consumed his mind, exhausting him as nothing else could.

"We cannot risk another war against France," Rogers said, shaking his head. "Our coffers are level as it is; why take the risk of falling into a deficit? We would gain nothing!"

"We would gain French territory!" Arthur snapped, swiveling his head to look around at the other English politicians and courtesans gathered, looking to one of them to make an argument in favor of Longfellow's proposal of war with France over Calais. "Is that not worth something? And what of pride, Rogers? Have you none?" The man colored, but spoke not.

"I think we should go to war!" Godfrey declared at last. He slammed a fist down on the table. "Those damn French are getting to smug over there for their own good!" There were a few nods of agreement, but the Duke of Leicester shook his head.

"It's ill-advised," he said. "We're just beginning a time of prosperity; war is not what the people need right now."

"As if you know anything about what the people need!" Arthur scoffed. A few heads turned.

"War is ill-advised," Leicester repeated.

"I must agree with Leicester," piped up the Duke of Norfolk. "I think a war now would end poorly; France is strong at the moment. It would drag out too long with too little gained." Murmurs of agreement ran through the assembly.

"Too little? Nothing is too little!" England brought his hand down atop France on the map spread over the table. "Every bit of land we take from those heathen trollops is worth whatever price we pay for it, no matter how steep! Every dead Frenchman is worth his weight in gold, aside from sweat and blood for the value of his death!" Some of the men were beginning to stare now, almost uneasily.

"England…we'll have a chance to get at the French," Leicester spoke up at last. "But today is not that day. Perhaps in ten years, or twenty, when there is something more to be gained; nationalistic pride may need a boost then."

"And why not this day?" he snarled, unable to stop himself from turning his burning eyes on the coward Leicester. "It is never a poor day for war with France! Only a weak fool would refuse to go to war with those pathetic, slavering rodents!" The men were definitely ill at ease now, casting looks between each other. Only Godfrey seemed to agree with England.

"It is a poor day when it does not benefit our people." Leicester's quiet disagreement was the only voice in the room that spoke against Arthur's. Everyone else was as quiet as if listening for a pin to hit the floor.

Arthur couldn't argue with that logic—and in his heart he knew it to be true. It was a bad time for war with France. Still, he wanted it so badly he could feel the taste of it marinating on his tongue. His face twisted up and he made a loud sound of revulsion, turning sharply and exiting the room, his cloak swirling out around him as he grabbed it on the way by.

"Do you think…something's happened?" Nottingham asked Leicester uncertainly. Both men still looked after the vanished nation.

"I don't know," Leicester said after a long moment. "But if it has…I hope he gets over it soon. Warmongering like that, from our own nation, will be the destruction of us in the end."

The only sound he could hear was the sound of his footsteps, and he was glad. He had had enough of listening to France and Spain twitter at each other like robins in spring, slipping in and out of French and Spanish, throwing Latin in where it suited them, looking like Aphrodite and her lover Adonis stretched out on couches of the finest imported silk and hand-carved mahogany; it was revolting. That whole family was revolting; Rome's grandchildren were nothing more than a nest of whores and weaklings.

It was no wonder France's royal palace was so ornate and ostentatious; her arrogance blazed through every detailed tapestry, every gilded handrail, every marble stair. He loathed the lot of it; he could barely keep his food down, looking around this disgusting edifice to human greed and vanity.

They had wandered off sometime after dinner; their gestures to each other becoming muted and less easily seen beneath the flickering candlelight; their heads pressed closer together, their whispering and giggling had grated on his ears. He was glad when they were gone and he could nurse his rum in peace.

He was on his way to bed, he told himself. He was just taking the long route. But there—there—there were voices, as he had suspected there might be. He had to take a look, he told himself, to see (As if he didn't already know what he would find!). The door was partially ajar already; he slipped into the sitting room, managing to linger in an archway to the next room over, a voluptuous red curtain laced with golden fleur-de-lis offering what protection the dark didn't already.

Now he really had to swallow to stop himself from being sick; they were there, alright, that bastard Spaniard had France against the wall, her dress hitched up around her hips, her stockings discarded on the floor. He had hooked one of her legs around his waist and was whispering to her in Spanish while he pushed her into the wall—only he managed to make it gentle, somehow, the strain of his legs passionate, lusting, but he wasn't destroying her. He was wasting her! There was no point in having France without degrading her, humiliating her, making her beg! The Spaniard was too stupid to know that, to know she was always best when she was angry. Did he even know, of France's temper? She showed it to so few people. England sneered in the darkness; what a worthless fool Spain was. He didn't know France at all, no matter how long they had been fucking over treaties like this.

Marianne arched beneath his touch, her soft, breathy noises like feathers falling from a tree, her luscious hair partially down. Her hands curved like graceful Cs over his shoulders, her hips striving to press closer to his. The line of her leg, even bent, was like a fluid river, unbroken, undamaged; he saw no ripple of scars, no scrunched up flesh or marred skin. Where were all the marks he had left on her? He knew they had to be there; he'd seen them made! Why did she not bear the scars of their wars?

Looking closer, Arthur could see the glint of the single candle's light on France's many jewels—quite a few of which Spain himself had brought her. The heady smell of their perfumes and colognes sweetened the air, twining with the candle smoke and leftover scents from previous occupants of the sitting room.

"Antonio," she groaned, drawing his name out so that each syllable was like a song; no human made a groaning sound like that; the breath of the muses left her lips. "Oh…ah…"

He didn't realize how hard he was straining to hear the sounds Spain drew from France's lips until he saw he'd stepped out from behind the curtain and was in danger of being seen. He quickly ducked back behind it, pressing his back against the wall, heart pounding. Spain's noises began to overwhelm France's gentle sounds and he swore at the Spanish slut in his mind.

He didn't even think to stop and wonder why he was here, watching this, only that he could not draw away. France's noises rose in pitch at last, putting them above the Spaniard's animalistic grunts and even now, even in the very peak of what pleasure was possible for a human to achieve, her voice sounded with the beauty of the golden harp; England's hand flew down to cover himself—if he were caught now, it would be in a very compromising position. He knew he had to leave, but he couldn't.

"Ah-ah…ah…" He heard France relax and dared to peek around the curtain to see her slumped against the Spaniard, still thrusting into her to seek his own climax, like the beast he was. Her hair swung across her cheeks, slightly stuck to her forehead with a fine veil of sweat. Her eyes were mostly closed, impossible to pick out the sapphire color of her eyes in the dark. But it was, however, possible to see the rapid rise and fall of her porcelain breast, slowing now, but still faster than normal breathing. England was not aware of the Spaniard's climax; if he left before it happened, he didn't know. He only made his way back to his guest room as fast has he could, before anyone saw the tell-tale evidence of his witness to the Romantic lovers' tryst.

As soon as he had his hand on himself again, he waited for the images of France's defeat, but they were blurred, harder to call to mind now. Impatient, he started anyway, thinking they would sharpen along the way. They never did. Instead, what came to him was to his ears. Her _voice. _Her sounds—as if they were right there, right in front of him. Her quiet gasping, low moans; he could practically feel her nails scraping across his back and he moaned himself, clamping his other hand over his mouth; that had been clearly loud enough for anyone near his room to hear. Keeping the one hand over his mouth, he continued and it wasn't until he was teetering on the edge of release he realized she was speaking—speaking French. If he had been aware of her words back in the sitting room, he hadn't realized it, but they came back to him now; scores of them, pouring out in that fluid artist's tongue, wrapping themselves around him like soft white arms, pulling him in to cradle him and stroke his cheek as he bit down on his final cry, to rub his chest as he coated his hand in his own fluid.

_NO! _It was France's utter humiliation; his knife in her breast; that was the only image of her that was allowed to do this! Not this, not this whispering, seducing, horrifying repetition of her tart's tongue—the words she had said to the Spanish twat, no less! He refused to let it. He pushed away the aura of her words and wiped his hand off on her bedcovers. Let her servants clean up the mess or better yet, let Marianne do it. She could use her tongue, like she did with all the other rodents that passed through her bed like leaves through a stream.

But his visit to France's royal palace—some bullshit nonsense about trying to maintain peace between their nations—had marked a change. He did not yet realize it, but it had. The whole pretense behind the meeting was ridiculous; everyone knew France and Spain would continue to unite against England and fuck behind his back—or even in front of his face. They had no shame, none of them! He hated the Europeans. And to him, everything loathsome about them was embodied in that floozy France.

So why was it, then, that when he dreamed of her his first night back in London, it was different? It began the same as always; he violently defeated and disarmed her, and set about verbally abusing her and shredding her dignity and pride but then—then suddenly she jerked up and their lips met; like fire and ice.

She pressed closer to him and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest; he could feel her breasts, damp with her own blood, flush against him. The sword slipped from his hand and a whine came from his throat; suddenly he was desperate. It didn't matter that France was on her knees, weaponless, her men slaughtered around her. He was the desperate one.

His mind grappled for control of the situation; he pushed her back down, jerking her skirts out of the way—cutting them when necessary. His hands fumbled at his belt, yanking at it to get it off, when France's hand closed over his, slowly undoing the garment for him. He hesitated, then thrust her hands away, grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the filthy stone street.

Around her neck she wore pearls; they sparkled in the cloudy light; her face was smirched with soot and blood, but her eyes were half-closed; she looked almost relaxed. He let go one wrist to knot his fingers up in her hair, to pull it hard, but she reached up with her freed hand and stroked his cheek; each violent act he committed against her she counted with one of tenderness or sensuality until he was shaking her like a rag doll, even banging her head back against the road to make her stop. So distracted was he that he woke before the act itself—only to find his body had finished for him.

Nearly shrieking in frustration, he threw back the covers and dressed, not even bothering to clean himself off first. He grabbed his cloak and buttoned it on as he strode down the hall, making right for the stables.

"My lord, where are you going?" called one of the guards.

"The chapel!" he replied, swiftly leading his horse to the gate.

"But my lord, it's the middle of the night!" England ignored him, mounting his steed and riding off without a response. He galloped the whole way there, the cold wind sweeping his hair back. Even now, her spell reached him; her smell and touch were almost real. He ground his teeth and spat and swore, hating her more each second that passed.

Once he reached the church, he flung himself off the horse, hitting the ground hard enough to make pain shoot through his feet; he hardly noticed. He tossed the reins aside, not even bothering to secure the horse before going in. He flung open the doors of the church, his footsteps bouncing off the vaulted stones, the stained glass masterpieces only reminding him of France's scintillating jewels and gems—so like her brilliant eyes. He was panting by the time he reached the cross that stood proud behind the pulpit.

"Is this a joke?" he burst out, his hands trembling as he pointed to the cross. "Have I not built the most virtuous empire in the world? Have I not waged war after war for Your sake?" He began to pace back and forth, his hands twitching agitatedly at his sides and behind his back, heavy breathing punctuating the air while he searched for each next sentence. "Have I not always sought to destroy enemies of God? Why, then, am I tortured like this?" His voice rose to a shout. "That—that tart is an abomination to Your word! I have only ever done as I was commanded." He slumped down to his knees, clutching desperately at the pulpit as he stared up at the cross, looming over him. "Why do You allow her to torment me thusly? She has put a spell on me; cast some fire into my veins and I cannot make it go away!"

He twisted his head from side to side, as if writhing about beneath the weight of the curse.

"Let me destroy her," he panted at last, nearly drooling with desire. "Let me have her head, Lord, let me put an end to her! I will exalt Your name to all corners of the Earth; just give me France!"

The church remained devoid of sound, save for England's lustful breathing. His eyes gleamed; he must have thought he had some answer, because hours later, he left and returned to the castle as the sun was breaking.

"Please, my lord, with Calais in our grasp, we may finally have the French on the run again!" England was unabashedly goading his king to war, going over Leicester and Norfolks' heads to get to the one who would make the ultimate decision. "How good a day would it be, my lord, when we can fly St. George's cross over Calais? Over Normandy? Over Paris?"

The king laced his fingers together, leaning forward in his throne, elbows on his knees. His brow furrowed in thought.

"Leicester has counseled me to avoid war," he said at last. England scowled; of course that groveling worm had been here before.

"Leicester is a coward," he condemned the man. "A sniveling insect; he fears war with France because he fears to lose his fiefdom, or be called to fight himself. He has no sense of loyalty to England or pride in the crown!" The king considered these words. He had been advised all his life that Arthur would always have what was best for England in mind; that he was level-headed, cool and capable. And for most kings before him, that had been true. The madness that overtook him now was so new, so recent, that the king did not have time to realize he was acting out of character, and that his advice was completely driven by his need to control France and get whatever he sought from her—he still wasn't sure himself.

"Hm…" The king's eyes darkened with thought; England quivered with the approaching triumph. "He does seem overly cautious…" _Yes, yes, yes! _He was so close, so _close, _he could feel his sword in his hand, France's swan-like neck in the other.

At that moment, the door banged open and there came Norfolk and Leicester. England swore with all the creativity and vulgarity of a sailor in his mind.

"My lord, I would never speak for my own gain," Leicester said immediately. "I speak on behalf of England; I want what is best for our great nation and it is _not _war. Not now."

"England tells me you are a coward," the king said bluntly. Leicester's eyes swung over to England, lurking beside the throne.

"I believe he speaks from patriotism, my lord. Of course he has pride for our nation." He was not, then going to damn Arthur as Arthur had Leicester. It made him out to be much more clear-minded—or else the coward he had been accused of being. "But it clouds his judgment in this case."

"My judgment is hardly clouded," he sneered. "Why should I drive my own people—my own body into an unnecessary war? You, on the other hand, stand a great deal to lose—your riches, your status, perhaps even your life. It is your mortal judgment that is clouded, Leicester."

"Please, my lord." Leicester appealed to the king once more. "I beg of you to heed our words; Parliament decided against war. Let there be no war. Wage later, when we have built up our treasury more, when France has grown idle and lazy in absence of our swords to straighten their posture."

"If we don't strike now, we will lose the advantage," England hissed. But the king was still considering Leicester's words.

"I think…it will not hurt us to wait," he said at last. "After all, unless we have the strength to push forward from Calais, the possession itself does nothing but put our men at risk."

"No! We must have Calais!" England shouted, unable to hold back anymore. The fire was searing in his gut again, scorching his lungs and throat. "We must have France." His breast heaved as he snapped his gaze around between the tree men. "She _must _yield to us; I will not have it otherwise! I will have France under my control, or I will have her head on a pike! We _must _go to war; _she must burn." _


End file.
